by James Fahy
Robin realised what she was referring to. When they had found a sealed cylinder out on the lake in the summer, a puzzle which none of them could immediately solve, Irene had taken a trip to London to consult an expert in ancient things who might be able to help them solve it.
Robin recalled that Irene had left the actual relic at Erlking with Robin, taking only photographs with her. She had indicated that she trusted the expertise, but not the expert. If this was the same person, as Karya surmised, why on earth would Irene bring him to Erlking?
“I have something which I am hoping Mr Ffoulkes, with all his contacts, expertise and skills, may be able to help us with," Irene said. She glanced at Robin. “I will speak with you privately about this at a later time, Robin.”
He could guess what she was referring to. A strongbox Robin himself had retrieved from a very hidden tomb. A box which had been considered an important treasure by none other the Queen Titania herself. Given to Robin’s father and passed later into the safekeeping of another of the Fae Guard, Nightshade. The box, when they had retrieved and opened it, hadn’t contained a secret weapon, a magical sword or a powerful spell written on ancient parchment as one might have expected. It had contained nothing but a list of names, and the frontispiece of an old and unidentified library book. Everyone was baffled by it.
Robin watched the glittering Mr Ffoulkes drinking his wine, looking around the room at the many trophied heads as he did. Could this glittering fop, who Robin was, rather guiltily, coming to think of as rather odious, really shed any light on the contents? Clearly Irene hoped so. The man caught Robin staring, and tipped him a friendly wink. Robin smiled awkwardly and returned to eating. The guy really was like a game-show host.
“Hey, enough about business though, right?” Mr Drover suddenly piped up, waving a spear of asparagus on the end of his fork. “This isn’t just a meal, this is a gift giving, isn’t it? Not every day a lad turns fourteen and I’m sure he’s itching to open those.” He nodded his head at the far end of the long table, across from Irene, where a small pile of brightly wrapped presents waited. Robin had been politely not staring at them ever since the strange evening meal began, but now he grinned.
“Well said, Mr Drover,” Irene nodded. “Hestia, bring in the cake will you, dear? Robin, you may of course open your gifts. The one in white is from myself.”
The housekeeper, who had been silently circling the table like a grumpy shark, notably avoiding passing too close to the three strange sisters, excused herself from the room. Henry, who was sitting closest to the presents, grabbed one in shimmering white and silver wrapping, large and bulky, and passed it along the table with a grin.
“That’s the one,” Irene nodded with a serious air of great gravitas.
Robin tore off the wrapping, intrigued as to what it could be. It turned out to be a very handsome backpack, in dark, soft brown leather, with quite a few buckles and straps.
“Awesome! It’s great, thanks Aunt Irene,” he said, turning it over in his hands.
“It is a Swedenborgian satchel,” the old lady explained. “Given that you are of a mind to disappear from time to time, usually without permission I might add, and that I understand you often take a stack of your books along with you, I felt it might be useful. Open it and see.”
Robin unbuckled the bag and peered inside. It was pitch black. He couldn’t see the bottom of the bag at all. He glanced up at his aunt in confusion.
“Oh, I’ve heard of these,” Karya piped up with interest. “Pocket dimensions, quite an advanced magic, isn’t it?”
“It does have a lot of pockets,” Henry nodded sagely, peering at the bag.
“No, moron,” Karya smirked. “Swedenborgian space. The bag is bigger on the inside, kind of like Erlking Hall itself. You can fit tons of things in there.”
“As I understand it,” Irene said lightly. “It’s all rather to do with fractals, though heaven knows how it works. It is enough that it does. You will be able to pack very well, should you ever need to.”
“Wow,” Robin said into the bag, genuinely impressed. His voice echoed back from the inside a few seconds later, as though from a great distance.
“Open this one next!” Henry said impatiently, passing a small wrapped cube over. “It’s from us lot.”
“You already gave me that book this morning,” Robin argued.
“Yeah, well, I told you we got you two things. This is the other one. And really it’s a present for all of us; you, me, Karya and … everyone … too.”
Robin knew Henry had been about to say ‘Woad’ but had remembered in time that while they had guests, Woad did not officially exist.
Under the hastily torn wrapping, there was a stack of what looked like business cards made from weathered parchment. Confused, Robin took one out of the stack and turned it over in his hands. It was blank on both sides. He looked to Henry and Karya questioningly.
“It’s instead of a phone,” Henry grinned.
Robin's confusion deepened. “Notecards?”
Karya took one of them out of his hand and produced a pen from the depths of her large coat. “You know full well, Scion, that none of your modern mortal world technology works well here in Erlking, or in the Netherworlde. No phones, no TV, no computers. They all just go…to use Henry’s language … ‘mental’. But this …”
He watched her scribble something on the card she had taken. A couple of seconds later, the lettering disappeared, as though it had been absorbed into the parchment.
Robin peered at the card which he held. Before his eyes, Karya’s words, which had faded from her own card, appeared on his, writing themselves out of thin air:
‘Scion, happy birthday, hornless wonder’
“It’s an enchanted roll of parchment,” she explained, smiling. “Cut up into bits, one for each of us. Whatever you write on one, appears on all the others. No matter the distance between them.”
“We’re calling it hex-messaging," Henry said proudly. “Now I can hex you whenever, even if I’m at home down in the village and you’re up here. How awesome is that?”
He grabbed a card, taking the pen from Karya and scribbled.
A few seconds later, Karya’s words faded from the card Robin held and were replaced, in Henry's familiar scrawl, with:
WUU2? HP Bday m8
“You are going to have to teach me this hex-speak,” Karya said to Henry, reading over Robin's shoulder. “I am unfamiliar with mortal idiocy.”
“We’re going to have to teach … everyone else … how to write,” Henry replied quietly, referring to Woad of course. “We were testing this out yesterday and he just sent me an imprint of his tail.”
“It’s brilliant!” Robin beamed. He considered asking Aunt Irene if she wanted one of the spare cards, in case she needed to get in touch with him, but then thought better of it. If she wanted his attention, he was pretty sure she could just peer sharply at the ceiling of her study and Robin would feel it three floors above in his room anyway.
“We do not follow these human customs,” one of the sisters said in a raspy, shaky voice. It was the first time any of them had spoken since they had all sat down to dinner, and in all the fun of presents, Robin had quite forgotten their ghoulish presence. All eyes now turned to them, including several of the wall-mounted stag’s heads. A distant stuffed ram's head in the recesses of Antler-Pocalypse Hall gave a portentous bleat.
“But as guests,” the woman continued. “We shall bestow as a gift, the one thing no-one ever truly wants.”
“Socks?” Henry whispered under his breath.
“Advice,” another of the interchangeable sisters said.
“Guidance,” hissed the third. “Listen well, Robin Fellows. Three things you should know.”
Robin noticed Irene was watching the strange women carefully, though her demeanour remained studiously calm, her fingers resting lightly on the stem of her wine glass.
“Firstly …” the middle sister held up a lace-gloved hand.
The nails were long and gnarled. Her hand trembled a little. “Air you have toiled in, and in water have you been immersed, but now you must look to earth. For soon … soon, beneath it shall you be buried.”
Robin's eyes widened.
“Aha-ha-ha. Steady on girls,” Mr Ffoulkes said, with a slightly forced laugh, twiddling his extravagant moustache a little. “Let’s not scare the little chap, eh? It is his birthday after all.”
The women ignored him completely. The sister to the left tilted her head in Robin's direction. “Secondly,” she rasped. “Know this, Robin of the House of Fellows. You have the light of the Fae within you, burning like a candle, any can see that. But we sense also a kernel of darkness deep within.”
“Darkness,” whispered the other two sisters behind their veils in quiet agreement.
“A peppercorn of blackness in the light. Beware that it does not grow, and snuff out the other. It is not yours. It should not be there. And it will consume you if it can.”
Robin had no idea what they were talking about.
“And thirdly,” the remaining sister added, her head turned towards him, though her features remained hidden and shadowy. “Choose your prizes wisely. A great choice is coming to you, Scion of the Arcania, and your decision will alter the shape of more than you can know. You are only a boy, not yet a man, but the weight of the world rests between your tender horns.”
“I think … that’s probably quite enough advice,” Irene said crisply. “Always a pleasure to hear you speak of the future, sisters, you honour us with your words. However, I do rather think our attention in this present moment should be focussed less on doom and darkness, and more on cake.”
“Hear hear, old gal,” Mr Ffoulkes agreed heartily, raising a glass to this sentiment.
Mr Drover leaned across the table and patted the back of Robin's hand roughly. “Don’t you worry about the future, lad,” he said gruffly. “That’s a job for us adults. That’s our only job, really, eh? Your job right now is to enjoy your birthday.” His eyes crinkled into a reassuring smile, but Robin saw him cast a disapproving frown at the three doom-saying spectres.
“Yeah, I’m sure Rob’s chuffed to bits,” Henry glowered. “You know, about being buried, consumed by inner darkness and having the fate of the world depend on him any everything.”
“Henry, be quiet,” Karya hissed quietly. “You’re not helping.” Robin had gone quite pale.
Before Robin could reply to anyone, Hestia re-entered the room with a large three-tiered birthday cake, festooned with candles, rather breaking the uncomfortable atmosphere.
“I’d rather have had socks,” Henry muttered mutinously.
NYMPH AND KNIFE
Robin had been somewhat relieved to be finally released from the oddly uncomfortable dinner. Later that evening, once Henry and Mr Drover had gone home for the weekend and Karya had wandered off to find and feed Woad, Robin made himself scarce and checked again on the sleeping figure of Jackalope. This had become part of his usual evening routine. As expected, there was no change. The boy still slept, and would not be roused by any means. Hestia had clearly been in since Robin’s visit this morning, as the sheets had been changed, the pillows plumped and the curtains were now drawn against the dark autumn sky. Robin left the slice of cake he had brought with him on the bedside table. It had only been a thin hope that the smell of freshly baked chocolate cake might rouse the slumbering Fae, but you didn’t know until you tried, and Robin wasn’t accustomed to giving up on anything.
He sat for a while, telling his sleeping and unresponsive companion in the bed all about the events of the day. Their odd new guests, how strange they were, and the worrying and rather grim things they had said. He didn’t really expect any response. But it was peaceful and quiet in here, and lately he had found it a good place to gather his own thoughts.
Before he left, he lit the oil lamp on the bedside, casting the quiet room into a golden glow. He knew Jackalope didn’t need it, but as far as Robin was concerned, the other boy might come around at any time, and he didn’t want him waking up into unfamiliar darkness. He knew very little about Jackalope really, but he guessed he had already seen enough darkness to last a lifetime.
Not yet tired after his birthday events, Robin was halfway to Erlking’s library, the sisters’ odd words still ringing in his ears and with a vague plan to chat to Wally and ask if perhaps there were any beginners’ books on Earth magic when his pocket vibrated, making him jump.
“Bloody Hell, Henry,” he muttered to himself, reaching in and pulling out the parchment card. He had forgotten all about the hex-messaging.
Alrite? Just testin. How r u copin with the w1tches? – H
Robin still had Karya’s pen from the dinner party. He flipped the card over, and leaning against the wall of the dark corridor in which he stood, wrote back.
They’re not witches, they’re something else. Haven’t seen any of them since the creepy party. With Irene.
He watched the words fade and disappear. A few seconds later, Henry’s handwriting appeared again.
How’s Ur Boyf?
Robin rolled his eyes to himself.
Idiot. No change in Jackalope. Are you coming round tomorrow?
He watched the words fade away and stared at the empty card. Several long seconds passed with no reply. The seconds began to stretch into minutes. Somewhere in the dark corridor a clock was ticking. Robin considered that Henry was acting so oddly lately. Secretive, evasive. It was starting to irk him a little. Eventually, when Robin was just about to give up and stuff the paper back in his pocket, a reply came, and it was brisk and annoying.
Cant m8. Lessons. C U Mon.
Robin didn’t reply. As far as he was concerned, Henry still had such a bee in his bonnet about them taking in the stray Fae. Well, that was his problem. If he didn’t want to spend the weekend here, that was fine with Robin. He had other things to do. He didn’t need Henry to have a good time.
He was just about to continue along to the library when he heard voices through the door next to which he stood. It was Madame Calypso. It had not escaped Robin's notice that his tutor had been conspicuously absent from his birthday dinner.
Robin opened the door a crack, as quietly as he could. The room beyond, one of Erlking’s many parlours, was cosy and dark. Heavy drapes were closed against the evening. A crackling fire was lit in the grate, and soft sofas arranged here and there. The ceiling was a mural of clouds with painted cherubs, who were currently wheeling around the plasterwork silently, shooting tiny arrows at one another. Madame Calypso was sitting on a chaise longue, her feet tucked up under her diaphanous silk dress and a paperback book in hand. She looked as though she were studiously ignoring the man standing by the fire, who was clearly attempting to engage her in conversation. Robin saw that it was Silas Ffoulkes. The gold and red gilt of his clothing flickering in the reflected firelight.
“I have to say,” he said. “If I’d known Erlking was filled with such handsome women, I should jolly well have come and visited earlier. A-ha-ha.”
Calypso didn’t look up. She looked utterly bored. “It isn’t filled,” she said flatly.
“Just a compliment, my dear lady, that’s all,” the man chuckled. “You really are an extreme beauty, such a thing to be locked away here from the world.”
“I am not locked,” the nymph replied absently, licking her finger and turning a page. “Was there something you wanted, Mr Ffoulkes? Only, as you can see, I’m trying to read. Your insistence on talking is making that quite difficult.”
His smile flickered for a moment, and Robin got the distinct impression that he was used to being able to charm and twinkle whomever he chose, but he replaced it will swagger almost immediately. “Ha! I suppose it’s true what they say about your kind, isn’t it? Speak as you find, I see. That could hurt a chap’s feelings you know, were he of lesser stock than I. Surely you must be starved of conversation at least? A little company is a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Mr Ffoulkes. I am neither locked, nor starved, nor any other phrasing you care to use which would endeavour to paint me in any kind of light wherein I am in need of rescue in one form or another, so please do stop trying. Your efforts are excruciating. I am not a damsel, in distress or otherwise, and you sir, are certainly not a knight.”
The man’s face darkened a little. He turned away from her to make a show of warming his hands over the fire. “A drink then?” he said after a moment. Robin was equally impressed and appalled at his doggedness. “I am not here for very long after all, and ships which pass in the night? You could at least raise a glass with me. This is a jolly draughty old house.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Calypso replied, picking her book up again. “And I am a nymph, sir.” She licked her thumb and flicked a page. “We don’t ‘pass’ ships, we capsize them.”
The man chuckled. “Fair enough, fair enough. Aha. Message received. I shall drink my own health then, fair one.” He rubbed his hands together. “Dashed shame though, can’t blame a chap for trying, eh? Rather makes one wish one was a satyr.”
Robin’s tutor looked up sharply. “I would watch your tongue if I were you, firebrand,” she said softly. “You are a guest in this house, that much is true, but you are not my guest. I owe you no hospitality.”
“I meant no offence,” Ffoulkes replied, though even from his position at the door, Robin saw something like a glint of amused satisfaction in his eyes. Something almost cruel, as though he had been glad to get a rise out of the woman. “I only meant … well, it can’t be easy for you.” His voice was filled with theatrical sympathy. “Everybody who is anybody heard what happened to Phorbas. Terrible business that. Such a loss.”
“He is not lost,” she replied flatly.
“Oh yes, of course. Trapped in a sword or something, isn’t he? I heard as much.”
“A knife.”
